


I'll be your water

by Jenwryn



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early morning roadtrip fic; somewhere between here and there and here again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be your water

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Placebo's [I'll Be Yours](http://youtu.be/vHFA47eIaL4).

It's a hotel window-seat in a lull between mutants – in a lull between here and there and here again – in a lull between the pair of them, and whatever this is that they have become. It's a hotel window-seat, the wood cheap beneath them, and the key hanging from a frayed red ribbon, tucked in Charles's trouser pocket. Erik is drinking his coffee black, and Charles is bathed in sunlight.

It's early light, and it's pooled across Charles, puddled, spilt; strips of it sway across his face, his hair, his white-shirted shoulders. It's like the cream in Erik's coffee, like the single crumb caught at his collar. It moves, as Charles turns a page in the book he's reading, and Erik's eyes move with the motion, caught up, untenable, letting Erik know that Erik's looking.

Again.

It's infuriating to know that Charles must know, if Erik does – you don't need to be psychic, just need any kind of sense at all. Even more infuriating, though, to know that he's going to continue, despite that; going to continue looking, despite it all. Despite himself.

The sunlight moves against Charles, like Erik's gaze.

Charles's fingers slide against the book, as he reads.

Erik's fingers grip his coffee tighter.

Erik's mind feels the key, on it's faded ribbon, in Charles's pocket.

Erik doesn't believe in trust, isn't even sure he can, yet here he is, sharing a room with only one exit, and the key is in the pocket of a man he shouldn't even know. Erik can feel the coldness of it, made warm by the heat of Charles; singing with the life of him.

Charles's fingers have grown still against paper.

Charles's eyes, now, are looking at Erik, looking at him from that impossible face; there is a curious scrutiny in Charles's gaze. It would make a grandmother's heart skip, Erik thinks, with the way it so almost resembles innocence.

“If you want it,” Charles is saying, “you only have to ask, my friend.”

Erik would blush, if he were still capable of blushing. If the years and the wounds and the ink had left him with that much. Then he realises, with a jolt of oh, oh; the key. Charles is talking about the key.

Erik snorts with supreme indifference, and thumbs his cup, but he's already lost, he's already taken one step too far in the wrong direction. He can see it, in the way Charles's lips purse, and the man is guaranteed to start saying something that ends in _my friend_ , and who actually says that, and—

For a moment, Erik thinks Charles is going to put his fingers to his temple, but he's simply brushing his hair from his face.

“You know you can trust me,” says Charles, and the light makes him look even softer, and perhaps that's his strength, or perhaps it's his weakness, and Erik finds himself moving his knee; finds himself shifting it leftwards, letting it press against the knee that wears the trousers that own the pocket that holds the key. It's a move that Mystique might try, and likely lose, on Hank. It's a move that makes Erik curse inside his skull, then wonder why he bothers not saying it aloud, except – except, it's a move that makes an easy smile slip beneath the sunlight, settle onto those lips, onto that face.

Light warm on his skin, Charles makes smiling look simple.

Charles lets his book close on his lap, tips his head back, and bares his neck – pale, pretty, weirdly ruthless – and he never takes his gaze off of Erik.

“You can have it,” he repeats, more carefully now, more deliberate, more heavy with dark tones beneath the light, “if you want it. My friend.”

Erik doesn't answer, doubts enough in trust to trust himself, just leans forwards. Just leans forwards, and tastes sun and skin beneath his tongue; just focuses on not letting the key burn, as his palm settles against it, as his fingers dance there. He lets it be, lets it stay in the pocket, and puts his touch to a white-covered chest instead, and counts out the beat of what trust might sound like, if only he believed.

It's a hotel window-seat, metal rings of the curtain tugged shut, and Charles's mouth is warm.


End file.
